“Here we are.  Ebury, Yorks.  From King’s Cross.  Or St. Pancras.  (Boy must have made a mistake.  It was King’s Cross, not Charing Cross.) 12.50, that’s the train she went by. 2.10, that’s gone. 3.20 is the next—­and a damned slow train too.”

“What about the car?”

Tommy shook his head.

“Send it up if you like, but we’d better stick to the train.  The great thing is to keep calm.”

Julius groaned.

“That’s so.  But it gets my goat to think of that innocent young girl in danger!”

Tommy nodded abstractedly.  He was thinking.  In a moment or two, he said: 

“I say, Julius, what do they want her for, anyway?”

“Eh?  I don’t get you?”

“What I mean is that I don’t think it’s their game to do her any harm,” explained Tommy, puckering his brow with the strain of his mental processes.  “She’s a hostage, that’s what she is.  She’s in no immediate danger, because if we tumble on to anything, she’d be damned useful to them.  As long as they’ve got her, they’ve got the whip hand of us.  See?”

“Sure thing,” said Julius thoughtfully.  “That’s so.”

“Besides,” added Tommy, as an afterthought, “I’ve great faith in Tuppence.”

The journey was wearisome, with many stops, and crowded carriages.  They had to change twice, once at Doncaster, once at a small junction.  Ebury was a deserted station with a solitary porter, to whom Tommy addressed himself: 

“Can you tell me the way to the Moat House?”

“The Moat House?  It’s a tidy step from here.  The big house near the sea, you mean?”

Tommy assented brazenly.  After listening to the porter’s meticulous but perplexing directions, they prepared to leave the station.  It was beginning to rain, and they turned up the collars of their coats as they trudged through the slush of the road.  Suddenly Tommy halted.

“Wait a moment.”  He ran back to the station and tackled the porter anew.

“Look here, do you remember a young lady who arrived by an earlier train, the 12.50 from London?  She’d probably ask you the way to the Moat House.”

He described Tuppence as well as he could, but the porter shook his head.  Several people had arrived by the train in question.  He could not call to mind one young lady in particular.  But he was quite certain that no one had asked him the way to the Moat House.

Tommy rejoined Julius, and explained.  Depression was settling on him like a leaden weight.  He felt convinced that their quest was going to be unsuccessful.  The enemy had over three hours’ start.  Three hours was more than enough for Mr. Brown.  He would not ignore the possibility of the telegram having been found.

The way seemed endless.  Once they took the wrong turning and went nearly half a mile out of their direction.  It was past seven o’clock when a small boy told them that “t’ Moat House” was just past the next corner.